SoulBound
by Little.Miss.Xanda
Summary: Would they hate him if they knew that freedom wasn't the thing he craved? They thought they were the same, but how could they be? Harry was far more deeply bound to his Master than they could ever understand.


**Disclaimer**: Anything you recognize belongs to the incomparable J. K. Rowling. No money is being made from this.

**Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition – Season Seven – Finals**

**Captain for the Tutshill Tornados**

**Finals**

* * *

**A Different Kind of Magic**

It is important to remember that we all have magic inside us — J.K. Rowling

Each position has been given a book containing a different kind of magic to that of the HP universe. Your task is to take an element of one of these stories and use it as inspiration for your own.

You do not have to use the same type of magic as these stories do. You can take inspiration from whatever you wish (eg a quote, theme, plot point, etc).

Please make sure the element of the novel you did use is included in your A/N (this should only be a single sentence)

* * *

**CAPTAIN: Kindred — Octavia E. Butler**

**Taken from the book:** Time Travel, Slavery

Word Count: 1153

Thanks my team for betaing

* * *

**SoulBound**

Harry lay perfectly still as the long, spidery fingers caressed his hair. He couldn't remember when it had started, these soft touches that belied the reality he lived in; however, he was content to pretend that he was unaware of them, as well as the soft words whispered in a language only the two of them understood. Only muttered when his _Master_ believed him to be asleep.

Gently, featherlight, a kiss was placed on his forehead, and then the fingers and the weight on his small bed were gone.

He turned around, opening his eyes and looking out the window where the first rays of sunshine were appearing.

His pillow soaked up the tears running down his cheeks, and he chuckled—a broken, raspy sound that grated on his ears.

Funny, he couldn't remember for whom those tears were either—him, or the man that had left.

* * *

"No."

It was the first word he had spoken since he had been cornered by Hermione and dragged into a hidden alcove where several others had been huddling. He recognized the bright red hair, and Neville's scared face; however, he did his best not to look directly at them.

He knew, of course, what had become of them all. Though, he had no more Gryffindor courage to face the consequences of his actions head-on.

He had pleaded for their lives, and his Master had grated it.

"Harry."

He flinched when Hermione's frail hand caught his. The difference between their skin as sharp a contrast as their cloths—his, the finest silk; hers, rags that wouldn't even be fitting on a house-elf.

Still, in the end, they were the same, he mused, as their bracelets clanged together. He was just a better-dressed slave.

He shook his head, pulling away.

"Please," he said, finally looking her in the eyes. His breath stuttered, there was still so much fight in her gaze, so much life. He couldn't imagine the horrors she had faced, and yet, he felt far more broken than she seemed to be. "I can't."

He turned away and left, pretending that every call of his name didn't kill him a little more.

"Harry."

He stopped, bowing his head.

"Master."

A gentle hand gripped his chin, pulling his head up and making him look right at those bright red eyes.

"No need to bow when it's just us."

That hand left his chin and caressed his wild hair.

"Come. It's time for lunch. You can tell me all about that new book I got you."

Harry followed his Master, hating himself a little more because the reason he refused Hermione wasn't that he was afraid it might not work, but because it _might_.

* * *

He startled as the door to his room was slammed open.

"Hurry!" he heard Ron shout. "The others won't be able to hold them off for long!"

"I'm trying!" Hermione shouted back, drawing runes on the floor.

Neville grabbed him then, pulling him off the bed and towards the middle of the crudely drawn runes.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Neville said. "This is the only way."

"Hermione, we can't use magic. Stop this."

She smiled at him. "They may stop us from actively using magic." She wiggled her arm making the bracelet catch the light coming from the fireplace. "But we're still magic! Our blood is still magic! I made the calculations. It'll work. We'll be enough." She shrugged forward, pulling him into a desperate hug. "We'll save you. Everything will be alright." And she hastily drew a bloody rune on his forehead.

Then, before he could do anything at all, Neville and Ron—who had taken positions around him without him noticing—slashed their throats open, Hermione quickly following their example, and as their bodies fell to the floor, blood covering the runes, Harry didn't have time to scream before everything exploded in a jumble of colors.

* * *

Gentle fingers caressed his hair. For a moment, he lay perfectly still, enjoying the peaceful moment with the same guilt as he did every morning.

Then, his eyes snapped open, scrambling away from the steading hands.

"Who are you?" he rasped before his eyes landed on his bare wrists, and he froze once more.

He hadn't seen his wrists bare of those bracelets in over ten years. He struggled to contain a gasp as he felt his magic surge under his skin.

"My name is Millicent Atherny. The students call me Madame Milly. I am the Healer stationed at Hogwarts."

Harry looked up, startled at the deep voice coming from the small woman.

"Hogwarts?" he mumbled.

He hadn't seen Hogwarts in years. His Mast—no. He looked at his bare wrists.

Voldemort.

He closed his eyes, burying his head in his knees.

Voldemort.

Voldemort.

Voldemort.

He screamed, and his magic exploded around him.

* * *

This time, Harry didn't wake to soft caresses.

He looked around until his eyes locked with bright blue ones, and it took everything he had to stop himself from staring.

The man on the chair by his bed smiled at him.

"It's good to see you awake. You've had Milly in a tizzy." Dumbledore—a really young Dumbledore, or at least younger than Harry had ever seen him—smiled at him. "You had all of us worried when you were found." He leaned forward. "Now, you look young enough to be one of our students, but I know you are not from Hogwarts. Can you tell me your name and where you're from? You do look similar to one of my students. You could be siblings from how alike you look. Though I do know that Euphemia and Fleamont only have James."

He looked the same still? That really shouldn't surprise him. Voldemort would never give him up. It would have been too much to expect that Voldemort would let time take him.

"Harry," he replied, still refusing to believe what his eyes were telling him.

Hermione had truly done it. However, she had miscalculated. He hadn't been sent to the beginning of their war. He had been sent to the very beginning.

"Hmm." Dumbledore leaned back. "Just Harry?"

Harry stared, then started laughing, a hysterical sound that barely drowned out the beating of his heart.

Just Harry?

When had he ever been just Harry?

Then, he felt the castle shudder and Dumbledore surged to his feet as Harry screamed and his scar burst open.

He slumped back as a much missed and loved and hated magic washed over them.

"Dumbledore," the voice echoed around them burying itself into Harry that he could feel it in his bones, "give me Harry, and I will leave Hogwarts alone. Refuse, and I'll tear Hogwarts apart until I have him."

Dumbledore turned to look at him sharply, and Harry laughed. Elation and dread overwhelming him in equal measure.

He may no longer be shackled, but he would never be free. For how could one be free of their own soul?


End file.
